The Courts of Love: The Story of Eleanor of Aquitaine (50 page)

Henry, who was always anxious to appear to his subjects as a deeply religious man, listened sympathetically and declared that he would raise money without delay.

But it was not money that Heraclius wanted. He wanted crusaders.

Henry said: Yes, he could see that, but he himself was in no position to go and fight in the Holy Land.

Heraclius was desperate and did not mince words. He reminded Henry that when he had done penance at the tomb of Thomas Becket he had promised to undertake a crusade to the Holy Land.

Henry was always upset by references to Becket. It was astonishing how that man still haunted him. I was sure he thought of him often. There would be constant reminders         .         .         .         places they had visited together in the days when Becket was Chancellor, before his disastrous elevation to the archbishopric         .         .         .         the conversations they had had. There must have been thousands of memories.

“I said I would go when the time was ripe,” he declared. “And when the time is ripe, I will. That time is not yet.”

“This is the time,” declared Heraclius. “The heathen is at the very heart of the Holy Land.”

“I could not leave my dominions now,” said the King and added: “This is too important a decision for me to make alone. I must leave it to my ministers.”

Heraclius was shocked that he could rely on others to decide for him. Had he not taken an oath?

Henry could have retorted that the decision would not depend on them; he would follow their advice, yes, because their advice would be what he had commanded them to give him.

In spite of Heraclius’s disappointment Henry called together a council headed by the Archbishop of Canterbury, who obediently rose and announced: “My lord King, your duty lies in your own dominions.”

Heraclius could be very disturbing. Perhaps he guessed Henry’s men were merely obeying his orders. He said he would call on another Archbishop, one whose blood had stained the stone of his own cathedral. He would remember that the King had made an oath to go to Jerusalem.

“When it was in his power to do so,” the Archbishop reminded the vehement Patriarch. “The King has his duties here, and God will agree that it is his duty to remain in his own dominions.”

Henry rose and then said that he believed his council spoke good sense, and although in his heart he would be in the Holy Land, he must perforce think first of his duty. He would give money to the cause and he would help any of his subjects who wished to join the Crusade.

How fiery and how venomous these good men can become when they are flouted and prevented from carrying out their good works.

“You and your family,” cried Heraclius, “came from the Devil and to the Devil you will return. No good will come to you, Henry Plantagenet. You have turned from God.”

Henry was trembling with rage.

Heraclius mocked him. “I do not fear you,” he said. “I fear only God, and He is on my side. Murder me if you will, as you murdered that saint Thomas Becket. I could esteem the infidel in his ignorance who knows not what he does         .         .         .         yes, I could esteem him more than I do you.”

Henry was very shaken. That talk of God and Becket and the Devil unnerved him now that he was getting older.

I was sorry for him.

I had a feeling that I might comfort him more than anyone else could just now. I could laugh at the fiery Patriarch who used God as his ally to get his own way.

By chance I came across him alone in one of the chambers. The door was ajar, and when I looked in he was staring pensively at the wall. I believe he often went to that chamber, and it was said that he liked to remain there alone and study the murals.

“Henry,” I said quietly.

He looked up and I could see that Heraclius and of course Becket were not far from his thoughts.

“The Patriarch is a very fierce man,” I said.

“He cursed me.”

“I dareswear he distributes his curses widely. It is a method of getting his own way. Not a bad one really. It is amazing how those so-called holy men can strike fear into the bravest.”

“I did say I would go on a crusade.”

“When the time is ripe. It has never been ripe and never will be, I fancy. You have not broken your oath. It is only when the time is ripe that you have said you will do it.”

“It is so.”

He put his hand to his head. A rare gesture with him. It suggested weariness.

He was standing before one of the paintings on the wall. I had seen some of them before. They were allegorical studies of life         .         .         .         very cleverly done. This one was new to me. It was of an eagle and four eaglets.

“This is new,” I said.

“Yes. I recently ordered it to be painted.”

“It means something.”

“Yes, I am the eagle. The four eaglets are my sons. Look. They are preying on me. There are Henry, Richard and Geoffrey.”

“And the fourth is John.”

“Yes, that is John. He is waiting until the others have all but finished me, and then he will pluck out my eyes.”

“Oh Henry,” I cried. “What a terrible picture.”

“I face the truth now and then in this room. They are my own sons. I have given them affection. I have planned for them. I wanted them all to be great men. Between them they were to own the whole of Europe         .         .         .         and there is not one of them who has given me any affection. They are all ready to wrest from me what I have been preserving for them.”

“I did not realize you knew all this.”

“
You
know it?”

I nodded. “You were a fool to crown that boy, Henry.”

“I see it.”

“You were told         .         .         .         yet you did it. You would listen to nobody. You did it hastily so that you could show Becket that you did not need him. You have thought too much of Becket.”

“I loved that man.”

“That was clear enough. You loved the wrong people         .         .         .         apart from Rosamund and Alais. Oh yes, I know about Alais, your son’s betrothed and your mistress. They were gentle, kind, unquestioning. They gave you comfort. You did not get that from me. But it was more exciting, was it not? You and I could have done much together, but I was no Rosamund         .         .         .         no Alais. If you had been a faithful husband we could have worked together.”

“You did not care for me.”

“I did         .         .         .         in the beginning. It was when you brought that boy Geoffrey into the nursery that it changed for me. Unfaithful immediately after our marriage! It was too much for me to endure. But it is all over. You have treated me shamefully. That was a mistake. It has hurt you more than it has hurt me. Look at me. Look at yourself. And ask who has suffered more from your ridiculous behavior         .         .         .         imprisoning your own wife, the Duchess of Aquitaine at that! Do you imagine I am the sort of woman who sits down and weeps and tears her hair at misfortune?”

“Never that,” he said.

“Then at least you have learned something. But it is too late for your eaglets.”

“They are against me         .         .         .         all of them.”

“Richard might have worked with you.”

“He hates me more than any of them.”

“Because of what you have done to me.”

“I did nothing more than you deserved. You are the one to blame. You always were. You turned them against me.”

“I have told you before.
You
turned them against you.”

“Enough of this.”

“Yes. It is too uncomfortable for you.”

“I might have known that you would plague me.”

“You plague yourself. If you do not want to think of your sons, why liken them to eaglets and have an artist depict them so that they may always be before you?”

He turned away.

“You do not know,” he said, “what I would have done for just one of them to have been a good son to me. Instead of that, I have to rely on bastards. I can trust that other Geoffrey as I can trust none of yours. It is because they are yours. You turned them against me in their cradles.”

“As you like to think that, you must go on doing so.”

He looked old and tired. In spite of everything he had gained during a lifetime, in spite of his power and might, he was a sad and lonely man.

He leaned on his stick for a few moments and then turned and went away; and as I listened to the tapping of the stick, I felt pity for him and a certain sadness. I should have liked to comfort him, if that had been possible.

Freedom is one of the greatest gifts life can bestow, and like all great gifts it is only appreciated when it is lost.

To ride out again through my beloved country, to feel the sweet balmy air of the south, to see the people greeting me, calling long life to me in their warm and friendly voices—it was a pleasure to be savored and remembered.

They saw me as the deliverer. I was their true ruler. They had glorified my grandfather and my father, conveniently forgetting certain strife which had been evident during their reigns. They saw in them the great romantics. Aquitaine was never the same as when we had our own among us, they said.

And I was the direct descendant, but being a woman, I had married and brought strangers among them. Now I was back. There were rumors of what had happened to me. I had been cruelly imprisoned by my monster of a husband, but now I was free to come back among them and take my rightful place.

The troubadours came back to Court, which was filled with
jongleurs
seeking to return to the ways of the old days which, looking back, they were assured had been full of pleasure.

They wanted no strangers among them. They wanted to live their lives as their grandfathers had. And I         .         .         .         the true heiress         .         .         .         one of themselves, was back.

Calm settled on Aquitaine.

Henry had been right. This was what was needed.

So passed the days and life began to return to the old carefree ways. The people were happy.

A great deal was happening far away. I could not forget Henry as he had looked when he stood before that picture of the eagle and the eaglets. No wonder he turned to Alais for comfort. I think she must have cared for him, for it was not to her advantage to remain the mistress of an old man when she might have been the bride of a young one with a kingdom in view.

I wondered if Henry realized how dangerous were his eaglets. He was still deceiving himself about John. And John was the least likely to bring him happiness if all I heard of him was true.

My youngest son was wild, sadistic, profligate, a hypocrite and a liar, according to reports. Geoffrey might be pleasure-loving, suave and self-seeking, but he was not as bad as John. Richard of course was cold and stern and in a way high-minded; he would call his rule just, but some called it cruel. But John, from what I heard, was depraved.

Henry had been foolish to send him to Ireland. He ought to have known that that would end in failure. I could imagine John, surrounded by young men imitating him to curry favor. John would not care for the good of the country, of making it a prosperous addition to his father’s Empire. All he would think of was his own pleasure.

Messengers brought news to the Court of how John had roamed the countryside looking for mischief, ridiculing the local inhabitants, because of the way they dressed and wore beards, which he was reputed to have tweaked provocatively and insultingly. The Irish would not accept that. Of course his main pursuit was women, and as he was the King he thought that all were at his command. He was immediately in conflict with Hugh de Lacy, who had been sent over earlier and was governing the country.

I remembered Hugh de Lacy. He was a very dark man, by no means handsome, with small black eyes and a flattened nose; he was short of stature and far from elegant; but he had power, I remember. I could imagine his dismay at having John giving orders above him.

After a while, having run out of money, John returned to England, where Henry apparently received him warmly, still deceiving himself that this was the one son who loved him. I could imagine John’s playing the affectionate son, laughing inwardly at the old fool, determined to get what he could out of him.

Soon after that Hugh de Lacy was murdered. He was in the process of building a castle at Durrow when a man from Teffia with an unpronounceable name—I think it was Gilla-gan-inathar O’Meyey—picked up an axe and severed his head from his body.

Henry was deeply shocked and perturbed for de Lacy had kept good order in Ireland. John’s comment was that it was the old fool’s just reward.

In the meantime Geoffrey was at the French Court. Henry was uneasy about his sons’ friendship with the French King. I wondered if Philip Augustus knew that Henry’s worst enemies were now his own sons; and of course Philip Augustus was Henry’s perennial enemy—just as his father had been. There would always be strife between the kings of France and England while England owned so much of France; constantly there would be on one side the desire to retrieve and on the other to acquire more.

But between the King of France and Henry’s sons there was a great attraction. Philip Augustus was a clever young man, quite different from his father. He might not be as powerful on the battlefield as Richard, so successful at the joust as Geoffrey, but he had a subtlety they lacked.

At the Court of France Philip Augustus was now treating Geoffrey as an honored guest. It might have been that he was trying to sow further distrust between Henry and his sons. That would not be difficult. However, the entertainment he arranged for Geoffrey was lavish.

Geoffrey loved tournaments above everything else. He was brilliant in the lists, and it was only natural of course that with a prince from England there should be rivalry between the two countries, and as the jousts were conducted as a war, the two sides should vie with each other for victory.

They had agreed that this should be a mock battle. The two sides were to face each other, and if one member of the party could be separated from the rest and forced to dismount, that was considered a capture. Later they would count their “prisoners.”